


There Are Other Porches

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, the village au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 16:32:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1354150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When we are married, will you dance with me? I find dancing very agreeable."</p>
<p>Based on the porch scene from M. Night Shyamalan's movie The Village. Dialogue (with a couple exceptions) is borrowed word for word from the movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Are Other Porches

Stiles woke with a start, a gasp forcing the warm night air into his lungs. It was muggy, and he was sweating. But there was a chill in his bones that made him tremble, frown. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he gingerly pressed the soles of his feet to the floorboards and reached out, fingers brushing the fabric of the jacket he kept slung over the bed post. There was a tingling at the base of his neck, and he turned towards the window, sensing a presence outside.

It was not an unwelcome presence, and he found himself standing and grabbing the jacket before his fingers curled around his bedroom's doorknob and he stepped out into the corridor. He needed no guidance—even blind, he was able to navigate his way around their small village with little difficulty, his home even less so. He knew to swerve to his right at the end of the hall so as not to bump his mother's china cabinet and to step carefully over the sleeping dogs at the door, stooping and scratching their ears briefly, before he gently guided the door open and closed without a sound.

A shiver crawled up his spine, slow and teasing, and he slung the jacket around his shoulders, pushing his arms through the sleeves and doing up the buttons as he turned and began to walk the length of the porch. His bare feet trod the weather-worn wooden boards with an easy familiarity. He came to a halt, toe inching out just slightly to find the step, then descended, repeating the action once more until dew-laden grass tickled at his heels and ankles. He sat beside the figure that seemed unstartled by his presence and stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"The elders are going to have an inquiry tomorrow," he said casually, as if he were commenting on the weather. "Each member is to be questioned in the meeting hall." There had been an attack, several of the livestock killed during the wedding reception of Stiles's best friend, Scott, and Allison Argent, the daughter of the village's head hunter. The union was long overdue and, unpleasant circumstances aside, perfect. Scott was happy, and that was all that really mattered to Stiles.

"To see how the border was breached?" his companion, Derek, asked—though it wasn't so much a question as a statement. Derek was smart enough to know the difference between a random attack and a violent act that was done out of spite. The creatures that lived just beyond the border of their small village would remain pacified only so long as they were not bothered—and so long as the proper sacrifices of livestock were made in their honor.

"Yes," Stiles replied with little conviction. He knew that the creatures would not stay as peaceful as they were on goats and sheep alone. Eventually, they would crave human sacrifices. And that would start the end of their village as they knew it.

Derek took a breath, huffed. "It is cold outside," he stated simply, quietly; his voice raised no higher than a whisper. "You ought to go in."

Stiles tilted his head at the lie, as if studying something in the distance. It wasn't cold—not that it made a difference. A thin tremble still wavered through his limbs, but it was slowly abating. Derek, he decided, had a wonderful effect on him. "Why are you on this porch?"

The question must have thrown the other man off. There was a short silence before Derek spoke again, head turned in Stiles's direction. "It is not safe."

Stiles turned, knowing that he was looking right into the eyes of the other man, and smirked. "There are other porches," he stated, smug in the quiet that followed. "Do you find my blindness too crippling?" He heard Derek suck in a tight breath at the blunt question, and he was happy to know that he could still startle people with his bold, rambling conversations that, at times, seemed just on the edge of inappropriate. Derek never seemed to mind as much as everyone else, though. "I do long to do things that everyone else can. Like that game the boys play at the stump. They put their backs to the woods and see how long they can wait before getting scared. It's so exciting." He smiled, imagining himself playing the game like all the others who dared to cheat death and wondering if the creatures actually watched them do it. Was it a game to them, as well? To see how long they could hold back before snatching unsuspecting kids into the woods? Stiles swallowed at the thought. "I understand you hold the record," he continued calmly, a bit of pride swelling into the words. "It will never be broken, they say."

"It's just children's games," Derek said softly, not even a hint of self-satisfaction in his tone.

Mouth dry, Stiles drew in a shallow breath. "How is it you are brave when all the rest of us shake in our boots?"

A pause hung between them, heavy as the air was with heat and sweat, before Derek spoke. "I do not worry about what will happen. Only what needs to be done." Stiles's lips tightened. Derek, indeed, possessed a rare courage that put the entirety of the village to shame. Even Scott, whom Stiles had grown to admire and count on in their childhood and adolescence after an illness had consumed his sight, could not match that sort of bravery. Stiles nearly missed Derek's next words but pulled himself from the fog in his mind enough to hear them. "How did you know I was here?"

Smiling just slightly, Stiles replied, "I saw you at the window." His smile grew into a mischievous grin as he pictured the incredulity and curiosity twisting Derek's features. "No, I won't tell you your color," he continued, leaning close and whispering his next words, "Stop asking." Many people in the village thought Stiles eccentric. Sure, he was a good story-teller, and for that they indulged him (though the blindness didn't hurt to gather their sympathies, either), but seeing colors as a blind man? Impossible, they said. And their colors, Stiles found, were the least interesting, so he didn't bother to argue.

Stiles could remember colors, or at least he liked to think he could. Scott's color was brash and brazen, like the blood oranges that he loved so much. It spoke volumes of experience and wisdom—an old soul in a young body—and his gentle heart, despite his rough exterior. He was one of the few that actually trusted and believed in Stiles's gift. Allison, who had long since ignored the rumors of Stiles's unstable mentality, was a smoldering blue flame, small and seemingly meek but intense and striking in a way that no one, besides Scott, could possibly understand. Derek, however, had a color all his own, one that Stiles had yet been able to describe. But he knew that Derek shimmered, that he was brighter than all the rest of the village, and that even in a crowd, Stiles could find him, could recognize him.

"When we are married," Stiles stated quietly, startled at his own bluntness—and his apparent and sudden marriage proposal—but unable to keep the words from falling past his lips, "will you dance with me? I find dancing very agreeable." And he did. Scott had shoved him into several dances during the wedding reception, which he had found dizzying in the most spectacular way. Derek said nothing, and a pinprick of annoyance jabbed Stiles in his left temple. "Why can you not say what is in your head?"

Quiet. Stiles nearly stood, thinking that his warm bed was probably better company than someone who wouldn't speak to him. But, all at once, Derek's words flew, hushed and hurried and fierce in a way that Stiles had never heard him speak before. "Why can you not stop saying what is in yours?" The other man took a steadying breath. "Why must you lead when I want to lead? If I want to dance, I will ask you to dance. If I want to speak, I will open my mouth and speak." A shift of fabric, the swish of hair as Derek turned his head away from him briefly. "Everyone is forever plaguing me to speak further."

Stiles felt guilty at the man's admission. Derek's uncle, a quiet and strict man, had been his only influence in life since his parents' passing. He hadn't had much experience beyond his small family, his tightly-locked doors, and his home education. He was shy and intelligent, and Stiles could not imagine him any other way.

Derek continued, his words growing fiercer and more rushed as they were expelled from him. "Why? What good is it to tell you you are in my every thought from the time I wake? What good can come from saying that I sometimes cannot think clearly or do my work properly?" Stiles sensed an immediate change with Derek's next words, with the fluttering in his breath and the...the fright that coated his tone. "What gain can rise of my telling you the only time I feel fear as others do is when I think of you in harm?" Stiles's stomach clenched, his chest swelled, his lips ached to smile. "That is why I am on this porch, Stiles. I fear for your safety before all others."

He could feel Derek's smile, the man's color brightening to a point that it almost hurt to look at him as a breathy chuckle escaped him. "And yes," Derek said softly, with an utter certainty, "I will dance with you on our wedding night."

Warm fingertips smoothed Stiles's hair back, tangled themselves into the thick mess and held him still while lips brushed tentatively against his own. Stiles smiled into the kiss and pressed forward to meet him.


End file.
